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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26598532">Words, Wrobs, Mrupz</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nabringa/pseuds/whymylife'>whymylife (nabringa)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Babs is nosey, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Detective Tim Drake, Dyslexia, Dyslexic Tim Drake, Fluff and Angst, GUESS WHAT, Gen, Genius Tim Drake, Good Intentions, Jason Todd is a Good Big Brother, Miscommunication, Neurodiversity, No beta we die like mne, Secrets, Shame, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake-centric, bad handwriting, everyone is a little bit of a jerk at first, gone horribly wrong, it's projecting onto fictional character hours, mispronunciation, or dyslexic people, right and left confusion, the bats actually do detective work in this one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:26:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,680</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26598532</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nabringa/pseuds/whymylife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times the Batfam encounter Tim's dyslexia unwittingly, and one time they hold an intervention and force him to tell them what's up. </p><p>Or: </p><p>AU where Tim has dyslexia because I need more positive dyslexia representation.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Batfamily Members &amp; Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown &amp; Tim Drake, Tim Drake &amp; Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake &amp; Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson, Tim Drake &amp; Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>792</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Words, Wrobs, Mrupz</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'll be honest, there is little to no basis for this in canon. I just had the idea one day and it spiraled. This roughly spans the time from Tim first becoming Robin to just before Damian gets there, but also holds to no official timeline or canon. The Drakes died and Tim was adopted, Jason came back to the family with half the resentment and none of the murder, and Tim and Steph were never a thing. </p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Robin. Read this list out loud for me.”</p><p>Tim looked up from his gear check and almost got hit in the nose by a hand holding a piece of paper. He scanned the list as Bruce returned to his chair at the Batcomputer and pulled up a map and a spreadsheet.</p><p>It was a list of addresses. This would not end well. “Um, Batman? I’m kinda busy at the moment, and--”</p><p>“Start with the Windsor Street address.”</p><p>Tim glanced back down at the list. It was written neatly-- obviously not by Bruce, who could barely read his own handwriting on a good day-- so it was probably from an outside contact. Also, easy for Tim to read. But still. “B, can’t you just--”</p><p>“I’m in a hurry.”</p><p>Arguing was useless when Bruce was this focused on a case. Taking a deep breath and another second to mentally prepare himself, Tim started reading. “First address. One… two… four… seven… Windsor street, apartment seventy-one, um. Wait…”</p><p>Bruce paused his typing expectantly.</p><p>“Seventeen, sorry. Apartment seventeen. The zipcode is zero, seven, nine, one, four. Second address?”</p><p>“Hn.”</p><p>“Ok, um. Forty… thirty-nine… I mean sixty-nine, sorry.”</p><p>Bruce twitched.</p><p>“Sixty-nine Phillips street. Um. Phillis Street. The zipcode is zero, six, nine, one--”</p><p>“They should all have the same zipcode.”</p><p>“Oh. Um… zero… seven… nine… one… four. For both of them.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“Third address is five… seven… four… I mean, eight. Sorry.”</p><p>Tim refused to look up, but he heard the stiff click of the backspace bar loud and clear.</p><p>“Five, seven, eight, and then four. Mabel-- I mean Maple! Maple street. Same zip code. Fourth address--”</p><p>“Robin. Stop.”</p><p>Tim stopped. “Sorry, B. But I tried to warn you.”</p><p>Walking over and placing the sheet of paper next to the keyboard, Tim glanced up at Bruce only to be met with a full-on Batglare.</p><p>“Next time you’re busy, let me know instead of making excuses. You just wasted both our time with that show of immaturity.”</p><p>Suppressing a flinch, Tim returned to his gear and started taking inventory over again from the beginning.</p><p>“Well,” he mumbled as he grouped smoke pellets into threes. “That actually went better than I thought.”</p><p>***</p><p>It took Steph all of a single patrol with Robin to realize he was terrible with directions. Like. Give him a map and he could plan out a path through the city and memorize it in seconds, but try giving him actual verbal directions with lots of ‘turn left at the corner of Mason and Waverly’ or ‘take the third right and go about a mile’ and he would be so mixed up he couldn’t see straight. She’d given up on that and invested in half a dozen maps after the first time he made them late to a bank robbery, but Robin’s issues with directions still came back to haunt her occasionally.</p><p>Like tonight.</p><p>“Robin! Go left!”</p><p>Robin froze, fists clenching imperceptibly as he  looked frantically left and right before dodging to the right to escape a spray of gunfire. He missed the bullets, but almost threw himself off the roof in the process. Steph would have facepalmed if she hadn’t been in the middle of tackling the gunman. Dumb bird. That’s why she told him to go left.</p><p>It took them another few minutes to unarm the gunman and handcuff him to an air conditioning unit, but after they dropped a tip to the police, Steph turned to Robin with a frown. “What the hell was that?”</p><p>“What the hell was what?” Despite his denial, Robin had the grace to look sheepish.</p><p>“You know exactly what I mean.” Steph crossed her arms. “When I told you to go left and you froze like a deer in the headlights and then went right. What was up with that? You almost fell off the roof!”</p><p>“Oh. That. I didn’t hear you…”</p><p>Steph raised a judgmental eyebrow under her mask. “You didn’t hear me.”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“We were talking over comms.”</p><p>“Well yeah, but with the gunfire--”</p><p>“Robin.”</p><p>“Spoiler,” Robin spat back. “I was just confused, ok! I didn’t hear exactly what you said, and then he was firing at me, and I had to make a choice.”</p><p>Robin was scowling now, genuinely pissed, and Steph decided it wasn’t worth the fight. If he wanted to ignore her perfectly good advice and throw himself off buildings, that was on him. “Fine. Whatever. You didn’t hear me. Let’s get out of here before the police arrive.”</p><p>She made her way to the edge of the rooftop, and waited for Robin to follow so they could jump together. It took him another second to get over himself, but she heard him moving soon enough, and then he was climbing onto the ledge next to her and pulling out his grapple gun-- and then he paused.</p><p>Robin always paused before he jumped. At least, before the initial jump of a long swing through the city. The first few times Steph thought it was nerves, but she noticed pretty quickly he wasn’t tense. It was more like he was thinking. Calculating angles or something. Plotting out the route in his head. They had been pulled away from their typical patrol route by the report of the gunman, and the building they were on right now was a lot shorter than those surrounding it. He was probably looking for a clear path out of the mini maze they had gotten lost in. She cleared her throat. “Hey.”</p><p>Robin looked up and met her gaze. “If we swing up the brownstone on the right, we could get a better vantage point.”</p><p>He nodded slowly, tapped a finger from his right hand against his thigh, and then looked to the right and found the building. “Good idea. That building will be a lot easier to grapple from.”</p><p>Another pause-- much shorter this time-- and with the click of a trigger he was off. Steph resisted the urge to either smile or roll her eyes, and followed.</p><p>***</p><p>“Dick!” Tim burst into the den, eyes wild, case notes flying. “I figured it out! She wasn’t poisoned!”</p><p>Dick almost dropped his laptop when Tim shoved a copy of an autopsy report and lab results in his face, but managed to balance both and focus on Tim’s rant.</p><p>“It wasn’t poison. Someone slipped her a reuputake inhibitor, and she literally had so much serotonin in her brain she died. So that narrows down the suspects to--”</p><p>“Someone gave her-- a what?”</p><p>“A reuputake inhibitor. You know, reuputake? The process through which--”</p><p>“You mean reuptake? No, I know what that is. You just said it wrong.”</p><p>Tim looked affronted. “No I didn’t.”</p><p>“Yes you did. See?” Dick pointed to the word where it was highlighted on the lab report. “There’s only one ‘u’.”</p><p>Tim took the paper from Dick and studied the letters with a carefully blank face. “Reuptake. Ok.” He nodded once to himself, and handed the report back. “Anyway. That helps us narrow down the suspects, because there were only two people who could have gotten their hands on such a powerful drug. Can you look into Dr. Morris’s alibi while I track down Ms. Sheldon?”</p><p>They discussed how to move forward with the case for the next half hour, and by the time Tim left to change into his Robin costume, Dick had forgotten all about his pronunciation slip-up.</p><p>***</p><p>Barbara was bored. Bored enough to make terrible decisions.</p><p>Hacking Tim’s laptop was an activity she’d been saving for a rainy day, and, given that she had absolutely nothing else to work on and Gotham weather was doing it’s thing, today more than qualified. Suppressing a grin, she got to work.</p><p>Tim was a master hacker. Not that she would ever tell him this to his face, but he had the potential to be better than her one day. He didn’t even have to think about it, he just seemed to know what to do. It was like that when he fought, too. Or worked through a case. Tim’s mind moved so fast it was almost like he did everything by instinct, so much so that even he could never explain his thought process clearly afterwards. He could type up a report later on what he did, sure. But he had a hard time verbalizing why he did it.</p><p>Barbara figured that was part of being a child genius-- just knowing what would work without really knowing how you knew; making connections no-one else could see and thinking ten steps ahead of the rest of the team. No wonder this kid managed to uncover Batman’s identity.</p><p>It took her nearly twenty minutes to get into his laptop remotely. Which was expected and part of the reason she did it in the first place, but still impressive.</p><p>There wasn’t much to see, unfortunately. Barbara browsed through his applications and saved files for an hour or so, disappointed every time something that had the potential to be blackmail worthy turned out to be boring and impersonal. She found a file or two full of photos of Batman and Robin that had already been passed around the cave, encrypted documents she assumed were case notes, a very detective-esque search history that was composed primarily of questions about the effects of various poisons on the brain and YouTube videos of the best ways to choke out opponents larger than oneself. Typical.</p><p>The one thing that caught her attention was the font.</p><p>Tim had installed a program to change all the font on his laptop, no matter the origin, to Comic Sans.</p><p>Not that Comic Sans was a bad font, it was just… Unprofessional. Unexpected. Tim turned in all his reports and typed notes in the stereotypical Courier 12. font, and had been very annoyed when presented with deviating fonts in the past.</p><p>Eh. Didn’t matter. It was his laptop, and if he liked the look of Comic Sans, who was she to judge?</p><p>Barbara cleared away all traces of her presence in Tim’s system, and-- since it was still raining and she was still bored-- decided she might as well spend the rest of the afternoon trying to beat her old record for hacking the Pentagon.</p><p>***</p><p>Tim was in the library surrounded by open books when Jason found him, sprawled out on the ground copying the Gotham specific details of criminal law into a college-ruled notebook. Perfect.</p><p>“Hey, Timbo? Can I borrow your notes on Roman Sionis’s last lawsuit?”</p><p>Tim shifted just enough to send a baleful glare in his direction. “Do your own research on Black Mask. I’m busy.”</p><p>“You’re literally going over Gotham criminal law. You have a notebook labeled ‘Roman Sionis’ right next to you.”</p><p>“Ugh. It’s not typed up, and probably won’t have the specifics you want.” Tim pulled the notebook in question closer to him, just out of Jason’s reach. “Ask Barbara for help if you’re really too lazy to run a google search on your deranged headgear rival.”</p><p>That bratty little-- Jason lunged for the notebook and yanked it out of Tim’s hands, darting to the other side of the room before the Replacement could get his ass off the floor. Climbing to the top of one of the sturdier bookshelves, Jason allowed a smirk to settle on his lips as he smoothed a hand over the cover.</p><p>Tim never let the others touch his handwritten notes, claiming only he could read them and it was better if he just typed up the relevant portions for everyone else. Jason was pretty sure he was just being a jackass who didn’t want others to take advantage of his work (like they weren’t all equally involved in cases-- freaking Timmy and his freaking superiority complex). Now that he’d gotten his hands on them, Jason would make sure that little shit never heard the end of it.</p><p>‘Besides,’ Jason figured as he opened the cover, ‘Timbo’s handwriting can’t be worse than B’s chicken scratch.’</p><p>He only had to lay eyes on the first page to see Tim’s handwriting was indeed worse than B’s. And it wasn't just the handwriting. Jason slowly flipped through the notebook with his jaw hanging down somewhere around his knees, pausing every page or so to get a better look at each new affront to the English language.</p><p>Half the words were spelled wrong, sometimes with two different spellings of the same word on the same page. Some letters were consistently written backwards, while others had been flipped once or twice sporadically, or substituted out with similar letters. There were a couple places where Tim had a ‘p’ instead of a ‘b’ even. Half the sentences were written inside out, so a lot of it read like Yoda dictated it. Some words were written inside out, too. Like Tim started with a letter in the middle and had to go back and fill in the first half of the word. The longer words didn’t have clear differentiation between letters, they just devolved into a jerky scrawl and bled into the next word. There were extra letters squeezed in or tacked onto the ends of words. Letters written over other letters. Lots of abbreviations and bullet points. So many black scribble marks and crossed out lines.</p><p>Jason squinted and twisted the pages and tried to sound the words out, but eventually resigned himself to the fact that this entire notebook was a nightmare and there was no way he would get anything out of it.</p><p>He was wondering if this was some new code Tim was developing when he heard an annoyed huff, and looked up to see the Replacement himself climbing onto the top of the bookcase. Jason promptly picked his jaw up off the floor and dangled the notebook threateningly in Tim’s face. “What the hell is this, Pretender? Some kinda practical joke?”</p><p>“This,” Tim growled as he snatched his notebook back, “Is my notebook. And I told you a long time ago not to touch my notebooks, jerk.”</p><p>Jason was flabbergasted. “Wait, you mean you can actually read that?”</p><p>“Well. Considering that I wrote it in the first place, yes. Yes I can. But you can’t,” Tim glared pointedly, “Which is why I type them up when other people need the information. Which I don’t have time to do right now. Which is why you’re either going to ask Barbara for help or leave me alone.”</p><p>“Fine, fine,” Jason raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t touch your stupid notebooks, and don’t bother you when you’re busy. Whatever, Lewis Carroll.”</p><p>“Don’t call me that.”</p><p>“Then learn to write like a normal freaking human so I can borrow your notes, Mr. Carroll.”</p><p>Jason jumped down from the bookshelf and stalked out of the library with his hands in his pockets, oblivious to the shock and hurt Tim hadn’t been quite quick enough to mask.</p><p>***</p><p>Jason was enjoying his morning cup of tea as Alfred puttered around the kitchen preparing breakfast. Gulping down the dregs, he rose and took his mug to the sink, stopping on his way back to the counter to inspect the fridge. Alfred had the Proud Grandfather™ habit of putting up report cards and drawings and notes from the kids on the fridge door, so glancing at the latest additions every morning was a good way to keep track of how Tim and Dick were doing. Not that Jason cared particularly, it was just a good habit to be informed. Yeah.</p><p>Half hidden by Tim’s most recent report card-- straight A’s of course, the brilliant little bastard-- was a note from Tim thanking Alfred for helping to research some British government something for a school project. He quirked an eyebrow at the thought of Timothy Drake-Wayne of all people asking anyone for help with research, and then thanking them for their help afterwards. But it was Alfred. Alfred was always the exception. Jason reached out to push the report card out of the way and read the note in its entirety. The typed note.</p><p>Dick wandered into the kitchen covering a yawn as Jason started to laugh. “Morning Alfred. Morning Jason. What’s so funny?”</p><p>“Timbo’s note to Alfie. He typed it.” Jason scoffed and dropped his hand. “Good thing, too. His handwriting looks like a blindman’s finger-painting exhibit.”</p><p>Unbeknownst to either of the brothers, Alfred’s shoulders stiffened minutely as he leaned over the sink.</p><p>Dick shrugged as he reached into a cabinet for a mug. “I’ve never seen his handwriting, so I wouldn’t know.”</p><p>“Huh. I’ve actually only seen it once, when I stole his notebook.” Jason frowned. “Doesn’t that seem weird to you? That he doesn’t show people his handwriting?”</p><p>“I guess?” Uncertainty was starting to creep onto Dick’s face as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “If it’s as bad as all that, maybe he’s just embarrassed and doesn’t want us to see it?”</p><p>“Yeah. Probably.” Jason snorted derisively.</p><p>“Speaking ill of Master Timothy’s handwriting skills does not become young men of your station--” a sharp voice cut in from the other side of the room “--and I would caution you to ask him about the issue yourselves before jumping to any conclusions.”</p><p>With a jump, Dick turned towards the sink and quailed under Alfred’s frosty British glare. Jason refused to feel guilty. He knew his rights. So he crossed his arms and did what he did best-- escalated the situation. “Why’s that, Alfie? What’s there to assume? He has bad handwriting and he’s embarrassed about it, we’re allowed to tease him. We’re his big brothers, so it’s practically our job.”</p><p>Alfred was not impressed by that perfectly logical argument, so instead of engaging and spilling the beans about why Tim was so weird about his shitty nightmare handwriting, he turned back to the dishes soaking in the sink with a sigh. “It is not for me to share my observations or conclusions. I can only say that there is more to it, and if I hear that either of you accosted Master Tim about this I shall be forced to take drastic measures.”</p><p>That wasn’t ominous. Nope. Not at all. “What the hell, Alfred? Is something wrong with Tim?”</p><p>Alfred, having said his piece already, said nothing more. The speed of his scrubbing increased imperceptibly.</p><p>“You know…” Dick leaned against the counter, mug cupped in both hands. “It’s not just the handwriting Tim’s weird about. He doesn’t like to read out loud around us. And he pronounces a lot of words wrong.”</p><p>“So, what? You think he has trouble with his sight or something?” As soon as he said it, Jason groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead because of course--</p><p>“No! I mean, maybe? I think he would have said something if it was serious, because he’s not stupid enough to try grappling around Gotham with bad eyesight, but maybe staring at computer screens all day is getting to him and he’s trying to cover it up?”</p><p>The increasing concern was evident in Dick’s voice, and it sounded like a lot of puzzle pieces were coming together for him as well. Jason was thinking back to all the times he’d seen Tim squinting at the computers in the Cave that he’d brushed off as screen fatigue, all the times Tim had asked to have mission briefing files in advance that he’d attributed to paranoia, all the random words Tim pronounced wrong that he’d assumed were due learning them through a book. He was so fucking stupid. They all were.</p><p>All of these memories, combined with what he had already described as ‘blindman’s handwriting’, led to only one conclusion.</p><p>Tim was long sighted.</p><p>He couldn’t see things up close.</p><p>Whether this was a recent thing or a lifelong thing remained to be discovered, but Jason intended to discover it sooner rather than later. Preferably before this idiot kid grappled himself into a wall or misread a chemical equation.</p><p>Bruce chose that moment to enter the kitchen, shuffling and blinking in the morning sunlight. Shaking his head, Jason looked over and announced--</p><p>“Hey, B? Your little birdie’s going blind.”</p><p>“... What?!”</p><p>Across the room, Alfred sighed.</p><p>***</p><p>On a perfectly normal day at a perfectly reasonable hour in the evening, Tim wandered down to the Batcave to get ready for patrol. He liked to go down early and get his case notes in order and check his gear before the rest of the group so he would have time to brief his patrol partner properly before they left.</p><p>He used the stairs instead of the elevator, leaning on the safety rail and shuffling through a stack of papers that included a marked up map and a diagram of stab wounds. When Tim got to the bottom of the stairs he looked up from his paperwork-- straight into the eyes of his entire freaking family, who were not lounging around the house like they were supposed to be for the next hour, and were instead sitting around a conference table that had not been there yesterday, out of costume, looking at him with the kind of gravity usually reserved for informing someone that their parents had died in a tragic accident.</p><p>That look had to be intentional, everyone in this room was too familiar with it to utilize it unconsciously.</p><p>Everyone was there. Not just Bruce and Dick and Jason, but for some reason Barbara had come all the way from the Clocktower, Alfred had emerged from the manor, and even Stephanie had been called in from wherever she lurked during the day. They all sat straight and stiff, even Jason and Steph. Bruce was at the head of the table, hands clenched on the armrests of his chair and face carefully blank. As soon as Tim stopped moving, Bruce rose from his seat and crossed his arms behind his back, looming forebodingly over the rest of the family. “Tim. Come sit. We need to talk.”</p><p>This was a meeting. A family meeting, since they were out of costume. But why include Babs and Steph if that was the case? A family meeting that involved vigilante stuff, then. A family meeting he had not been informed of beforehand. A family meeting that was scheduled at a time and place he would be off guard.</p><p>Adding to that what Bruce had said and the way he’d said it, Tim could surmise that this family meeting was, most likely, about him.</p><p>And was, most likely, not about anything good.</p><p>Gripping his papers tightly in one hand, he strode over to the table and yanked out the chair at the foot, opposite Bruce. Placing the stack of papers neatly in front of him, he sat and pulled the chair in with clinical efficiency. Looking up, he ignored the rest of the vigilantes seated and made eye contact with Bruce, holding it resolutely and hoping his disdain and annoyance reached the man across the vast expanse of solid oak tabletop. Tim did not appreciate being ambushed in his own Batcave, thank you very much.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>Bruce cleared his throat uncomfortably, and shifted his weight slightly. He was nervous. Good. Taking a deep breath, Bruce finally spoke.</p><p>“It has come to my attention that your eyesight may be deteriorating.”</p><p>Well.</p><p>Fear. Dread. Relief. Guilt too, maybe. They smacked Tim over the head with their intensity, but he set his face in stone and cast his spine in iron and rooted his feet to the floor. This was it. The confrontation he’d been dreading for almost two years now was finally upon him. Nevertheless, underneath the utter panic Tim could feel a tiny tinge of pride. Just a smidge, but still. For a family of dangerously curious detectives, they sure took their sweet time with this mystery. “… Wow. Huh. I guess I’m better at hiding things than I thought. It’s been, what? Two years?”</p><p>Bruce blinked once, confused. “Wait, you mean--”</p><p>“I’m dyslexic, you dolt.”</p><p>The room went dead silent, everyone frozen in shock. Then the smack of Jason’s hand against his forehead rang throughout the cave, and chaos erupted.</p><p>“What the flip Replacement?! I was freaking out--”</p><p>“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, I’ll have you know--”</p><p>“Aw, babybird! You couldn’t have--”</p><p>“Oh my-- It all makes sense! Tim--”</p><p>Alfred kept quiet at the edge of the room, observing and filing information away for later. Tim sat still and silent and solid, determined to ride out the storm-- to hold strong and wait for it to break so he could defend himself instead of adding to the mess of voices and emotions careening around the room.</p><p>After a few moments of utter mayhem, Bruce’s voice, deep and clear, rang out above the rest.</p><p>“Tim. Why didn’t you say anything?”</p><p>And that-- That. That right there, paired with the disappointment and resignation underlying the question, that was what pushed Tim out of his panic and straight into burning anger.</p><p>“Why didn’t I say-- Because I didn’t want this to happen!” Tim lurched to his feet, shoving the chair back and slamming his hands on the table. “I can see and read just fine, and if it’s taken you this long to notice it obviously isn’t affecting my work in any meaningful way! You can’t fire me for something out of my control, that I have been actively and accurately combating the entire time I’ve been here.”</p><p>Silence once again. This time it was Dick who broke it, asking-- confused and innocent as could be-- “Who said anything about firing you?”</p><p>Tim barked out a laugh. “Oh, gee. You don’t think you gave yourself away with the conference table? Calling the girls in? I am surprised you decided to do this in civvies though. Masks would have been more appropriate for vigilante business.”</p><p>Reaching behind him, Tim found his chair and pulled it back towards him, slumping down in the seat and only barely resisting the temptation to bury his face in his hands. “Just say what you have to say, Bruce.”</p><p>“No, that’s not-- This isn’t--” Bruce was panicking, and sounded pained, Tim registered distantly. For some reason this conversation wasn’t going the way he thought it would.</p><p>“We’re just worried about you, Tim. We wanted to make this a serious conversation because your health is serious.”</p><p>Tim jerked upright, shocked. He looked around the table for the first time, making eye contact with each person. Jason was scowling, but his anger was more self-directed and he nodded when Tim met his gaze. Dick looked lost and relieved and a little sad, but still offered up a small smile. Babs had an eyebrow raised and a rueful grin in place, and it widened just a bit when Tim raised his own eyebrow with a question. Steph looked utterly disappointed in life, but managed to wave limply. Bruce still looked like somebody had kicked his puppy, and Alfred simply tilted his head in deference.</p><p>Relaxing back into the chair, Tim allowed himself to breathe again, and shot a glare at the table in  general. “You guys are the worst.”</p><p>“Is that why you never said anything?” Dick asked. “You were worried about losing your spot as Robin?”</p><p>“I mean. Yeah. Pretty much.” Tim leaned forward, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment. “When my parents found out, they didn’t really accept it, so. But it’s not a big deal. I can read just fine, so it doesn’t matter.”</p><p>“Wait. What?” Bab’s voice was cold as ice. “What do you mean ‘your parent’s didn’t really accept it’?”</p><p>“They, uh. They don’t believe I’m dyslexic.”</p><p>The silence felt different this time. Tim couldn't really put a finger on why. Bruce broke it after a few tense seconds, voice oddly choked up. “Excuse me?”</p><p>This whole confrontation had been violently derailed, and Tim had no idea where it was heading anymore. The panic was gone, the anger had dispersed. His future was maybe more secure than he’d thought. This lack of control-- even if it was just the peripheral control of knowing what to expect and how to react-- was making him distinctly uncomfortable, and Tim could feel his shoulders curling up under his ears even as he fought to keep his face and voice neutral. Stone. Iron. He could do this.</p><p>“Um. Well, when I finished third grade I still couldn’t read, like, at all. And it was freaking my parents out, so they hired a tutor? It was the summer I turned nine, the summer before fourth grade. She gave me a few exercises to do and some kind of specialized assessment, and figured it out. She taught me how to read pretty fast after that, but then made the mistake of telling my parents I should get formally tested and be put in the special education track when I went back to school, and, uh. Got fired. My parents told me she was lying-- even though I knew she couldn't be because everything she said made too much sense-- and they told me not to repeat her claims to anyone, because as long as I could read I was fine and there was nothing wrong with me and I didn’t need to be treated like I was disabled or something. And, they were right. Sort of. I am fine. I did research and figured out how to manage it on my own. I can keep up in school and on case work, and I don’t need any special accommodations.”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean-- Tim.” Bruce reached out across the table instinctually, drawing his hand back when he realized how futile the movement was. “Your parents are wrong. Being dyslexic is not some kind of flaw. Even if you did need accommodations, that would not mean your intelligence--”</p><p>“I know, Bruce.” Tim cut in before the attempt at comfort could get awkward. “I am very aware of my parent’s failings, and I know that dyslexia is not tied to intelligence. I have done extensive research on dyslexia over the years. I am also aware of the fact that not everyone knows that, or really understands what dyslexia is at all, and I was not in a hurry to get myself stereotyped. Especially-- Especially not by you guys.”</p><p>The varying degrees of hurt on the faces staring back at him tell Tim that he may have misjudged the situation slightly. “I’m not-- I’m not saying I think you guys would have brushed me off-- more than you did-- or thought I was dumb or something, I just… I already had to prove myself, I didn’t want to give you one more reason to doubt me, or question my abilities. And… Yeah. I figured if you thought I couldn’t read correctly you wouldn’t let me work on cases...”</p><p>“Tim, I…” Bruce visibly struggled for words, putting Tim more and more on edge the longer he took to speak.</p><p>“I understand your reasoning. I’m upset you think so little of me-- of us-- but I understand why you didn’t tell us. I wish you had, and it puts a lot of past interactions into perspective,” At this admission Bruce grimaced slightly. “But I am not upset, and I am not going to question you or your abilities retroactively. You have more than proven yourself as Robin, Tim. You are intelligent and capable, and I am unbelievably proud of you.”</p><p>Tim felt himself tearing up, and swallowed to push down the lump in his throat. He knew Bruce was happy with his performance, but he rarely said so straight out-- let alone gave compliments or told Tim he was proud of him.</p><p>“Yeah, Timmers. You do alright. Still think you should have told Bruce up-front and saved yourself from this conversation.”</p><p>“I am so freaking glad you’re not going blind, babybird. Thanks for finally telling us.”</p><p>“Oh my gosh, Tim. Honestly though, you keep so many secrets I’m not even surprised.”</p><p>“I must say, I had my suspicions, Master Timothy. I’m glad the truth is finally out, even if I find myself apologizing for the means by which we attained this information.”</p><p>“So, what are your symptoms?”</p><p>Everyone in the room turned their attention to Barbara in surprise, including Tim.</p><p>“What?” She sat up straighter, daring the room to question her question. “Tim has dyslexia. Great. That explains a lot. But that can also mean a lot of different things. If we’re going to be informed and helpful, he’s going to have to tell us his symptoms.” She turned to meet Tim’s eyes, wide with astonishment. “Do you want to get tested and get a formal diagnosis? Knowing more about your particular type of dyslexia and having an actual doctor and specialized resources at your disposal might be helpful.”</p><p>“Uhh…” Tim gulped. “Maybe? I never really thought about getting a diagnosis. When I was still with my parents it wasn’t an option. And by the time Bruce adopted me I’d gotten used to not telling anyone. I’ve been doing fine, so I don’t know if it’s really necessary at this point?”</p><p>“It’s up to you, Tim,” Bruce said. “Whatever support you need from me-- from us-- you have. No question.”</p><p>This was too much, they were being too nice. Tim had geared himself up for the worst possible scenario and instead found himself in the middle of the one so perfect he hadn’t even bothered to consider it, and now he was starting to feel overwhelmed.</p><p>“Guys, let’s take this one step at a time. We can worry about fancy doctors later.” Dick stood and approached Tim. “Let’s think in the short term right now. Ok Tim?”</p><p>He carefully knelt down in front of his little brother, reaching up to put a hand on Tim’s shoulder and capture his attention. “Can you tell us about your dyslexia? Just major symptoms for now, so we can understand more about how your brain works and how we can make certain tasks easier for you.”</p><p>Dick’s smile was warm and reassuring, and carried none of the disgust or anger Tim had feared for so long. He took a deep breath, and sat up straight to address the table as a whole. “I can read perfectly fine. I read fast, I understand what I read, and I don’t and never will need help reading. I want that to be very clear.” He saw a few heads nod, and relaxed a bit; his voice steadying as he continued.</p><p>“What I do struggle with is, uh. Reading out loud. Even if I get all the right words or numbers in my brain, I don’t always say them correctly, or in the right order. It’s the same with writing. I don’t always put the words or letters or numbers down in the right order, even if the thought is clear. I spell phonetically a lot too. It's like the shapes of words get mangled in my head. It’s not as bad if I go slowly, and I always have the information correct in my mind even if it’s wrong on paper.”</p><p>There was more nodding. Some thoughtful looks and the occasional widening eyes or flash of understanding as someone connected a memory with Tim’s description. Tim felt the corners of his mouth turn up, and didn’t even fight it.</p><p>“I will say-- while I can absolutely read all fonts-- some fonts are easier for me to read than others. Comic Sans works best, usually.” Was he just imagining the way Babs perked up at that? Probably. “I also, uh…” Now this was a bit more unconventional and embarrassing…</p><p>“I have trouble telling left and right apart?”</p><p>Steph’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “You’re kidding me. That’s a symptom?!” </p><p>“Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but it’s related to the way letters get flipped around? And it’s on all the lists of symptoms I’ve checked, so it’s not just me.”</p><p>Steph sat back with a huff, arms crossed. “Ugh. Why does that have to make so much sense.”</p><p>Remembering the way he’d led her in circles on their first patrol together, Tim felt his cautious smile grow into a grin. “Heh. Sorry about that, Steph. Forgive me?”</p><p>“Fine. But you are never in charge of directions ever again.”</p><p>“I haven’t been. You forcibly took over that job, remember?”</p><p>“Yes. And now I know why I had to take such drastic measures and I’m vowing to never let it happen again.”</p><p>“Hey, Timbo?”</p><p>“Yeah Jay?”</p><p>“Sorry about your notebook.”</p><p>“Oh. Um, it’s ok. I should have just explained why I didn’t want you touching it.”</p><p>“No you shouldn’t have. I should’ve respected your damn property without needing a reason.”</p><p>“Language, Master Jason.”</p><p>“Sorry, Alfie.”</p><p>***</p><p>After nearly an hour of questions and discussion and re-telling old stories in a new light, Jason, Dick, and Steph left for patrol. Alfred offered Babs a ride back to the Clocktower, which she happily accepted. Bruce informed Tim that Batman and Robin would not be going out tonight, and that the Cave needed to be tidied up after the makeshift intervention.</p><p>Tim picked up one end of the table and helped Bruce carry it to the storage room it had been retrieved from, and then went back for two of the chairs. Once everything was in order, Bruce crossed his arms and nodded at Tim, a slight smile standing out on his typically stolid face. Tim nodded back, and they lapsed into silence. It wasn’t an awkward or uneasy silence, it was a Bruce and Tim silence. Quiet contentment in each other’s presence.</p><p>Glancing around once more, Tim turned and headed for the stairs, calling “Night, B!” over his shoulder.</p><p>“Tim?”</p><p>At the foot of the stairs Tim paused, and turned to face his mentor and adoptive father. “Yeah?”</p><p>“I meant what I said,” Bruce’s face softened even further, if that were possible. “I’m proud of you. I’m sorry for what you went through when you were younger, and that you felt the need to hide this part of yourself from us, and…” Seeing Bruce struggle for words was a new experience for Tim, and he wasn’t sure quite how to feel about it.</p><p>“I’m sorry for the part I played in your decision to keep your dyslexia a secret. I know I’ve become frustrated with you over notes or reading in the past, and I apologize.”</p><p>Bruce was… Bruce was apologizing. To Tim. For getting mad about something without knowing all the facts. Tim could feel himself gaping, and snapped his mouth shut with a click, tongue tripping over itself in his rush to rectify the situation. “No, no! It’s fine! I should have-- You didn’t know, and I didn’t want you to know, so-- It’s not your-- You’re fine. You don’t need to apologize.”</p><p>“But I am.” Bruce’s face was serious, eyes sharp and piercing. “You should have told us, yes. But I also should have looked into the warning signs instead of brushing them off.”</p><p>Tim stared at Bruce, incredulous. Bruce stared back, determined.</p><p>With a sigh, Tim sat heavily on the bottom step and finally let his head drop into his hands. “This has been a weird evening for me, Bruce. I sat down at that table thinking I was about to be fired, and then all that happened was I got showered with reassurance and praise and understanding for something I’ve been treating like a dirty secret for years and… I really don’t know what to do with that.”</p><p>Feet shuffled across the room, and then Bruce was sitting next to Tim on the stair and placing an arm around his shoulders. “It’s certainly a lot to process. But you’re not alone in this anymore, Tim. You’ve been managing by yourself admirably for years, but now you don’t have to. And that’s a good thing. If that’s the only information you take away from this evening, that is more than enough.”</p><p>Angling his body towards Bruce, Tim allowed himself to lean into his dad’s touch and relax fully for the first time all night. “Thanks, B.”</p><p>“Any time, son.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I based Tim's symptoms and some of his experiences off of my own, but there are tons of other symptoms and experiences and types of dyslexia out there, so I highly encourage you to do more research if you are at all intrigued! Here is a list of the most common symptoms to get you started: https://www.dyslexiefont.com/public/media-upload/37_symptoms_of_dyslexia.pdf</p><p>I've written dialogue and I've written stream of conscious prose, but I've never tried to combine them before. On top of that, I wasn't entirely happy with the ending, and of course my editing is always suspect, so you have any notes or suggestions they would be very much appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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